Of Right Hand Men
by Legis
Summary: House wakes up just in time to see Wilson leave. He makes no indication that he is awake, but somehow he thinks Wilson knows. Mature content not too detailed.
1. In Which Cameron Gets Involved

Created: 11/12/05

Okay...this is my first fanfiction in about 2…21/2 years let alone in the House category so characters might be very OOC so…uhhmm... bear with me.

Disclaimer: Don't Own. Don't sue.

House wakes up just in time to see Wilson leave. He makes no indication that he is awake, but somehow he thinks Wilson knows. Wilson quietly buttons up his shirt and eventually closes the door silently shut behind him. Goes home to his cold house and frigid wife. House pulls the covers over himself more securely. Suddenly, it's just gotten colder. He closes his eyes again. He has work in the morning.

When House wakes up, it's raining. Not too heavy, it's just a light drizzle really, but it's enough to agitate him. His room is cold. It generally is all the time, but in the fall and winter months it turns into a bloody freezer. House is convinced that if he left a tray of water out at night, he'd have ice cubes by the morning.

The cold makes House's leg hurt. The cold skates across the smooth skin of scar tissue. It leaves a tingly sort of seizing pain in its wake. House looks at the clock. 5:45 am. Too early for his morning Vicodin. He's going to have to wait out the clock, again.

House hates beating his alarm clock. He could never fall asleep again. He still has another hour or so until he needs to get up for work. He turns carefully on his right side and thinks.

At 6:28 am House gets up for a shower, because God knows he needs it. He sits up slowly, ignores the protests of his sore muscles, and limps over to the bathroom. Turns the water up the highest it will go without burning him. He's stopped that a long time ago. Why bother? It never got him clean anyway; no matter how hard he scrubs he will always feel dirty.

He lifts his right leg in with his hands and slides ungracefully under the pounding water. No need to remove his clothes; Wilson did that for him last night. House feels the grime, sweat, and who knows what else roll off his body with the water and down the whirling drain. Scrubs shampoo into his thinning hair. Carefully tries to clean himself without actually wincing and failing miserably. His hands are so tightly grasped to the handle bar Wilson made him put in that the knuckles are white. Wilson. It always comes back to Wilson.

Limps out of the shower at 6:56. House sighs and takes his first dose of Vicodin of the day. Gets dressed, hardly paying attention to what he's actually putting on. He sits and waits for the Vicodin to kick in at full strength. Feels the numbness spread throughout his body. Feels good enough to drive.

House strolls into work at 7:39 am. Looks around for Cuddy. The coast is clear. He takes this chance to escape to his office and maybe ride out the rest of his high in peace. Strolls purposely to the elevator only to find that it has broken down. House considers the stairs and is just about to take his chances on them when Cuddy comes down them. Damn it all.

He makes some comments about her breasts and he's off to the Clinic. House wishes the thing would just close down or, better yet, collapse upon itself.

There is nothing of interest here. It's cold season, but you'd think it was smallpox the way these parents were squabbling. House sighs, smallpox would have at least been interesting. He taps his cane impatiently on the ground as another worried parent fusses over their child's cough or fever. House is only half listening by then and prescribes bed rests and lots of fluids. Next.

By the time noon rolls around, House is ready to cane the next person who even sneezes. He checks out, figuring the four hours of indentured servitude is enough for one day. By noon, the elevator is up and running again. He rides it up to the correct floor and finally makes it to his office. His one haven in this God forsaken hospital. His sore muscles cry for rest and House complies. He pulls out his iPod, dry swallows a pill, and relaxes behind his desk on the floor.

That's how his ducklings find him, asleep behind his desk listening to his ever present iPod. His cane is comfortably within arms length. Easy to grab and swing at those annoyingly persistent office trespassers. House jerks awake surprised; he had not expected to fall asleep. They blather on about some patient, but House isn't interested. Dismisses them promptly and falls back upon his thoughts.

When Wilson strolls in, House still hasn't moved. House doesn't meet Wilson's eyes. Stares at his knees instead. Wilson gets on the floor with him, having already closed the binds in House's fishbowl of an office. Meets House in a kiss that screams dominance. Maybe that's why your wife won't touch you, House thinks. Always thinks, never says. Strange that only around Wilson will he hold his tongue.

House feels Wilson fumbling with his belt, pulling the zipper down. His warm legs meet the cold air of his office and he feels the goose bumps rise. Feels Wilson between his legs, feels something hard push up against him. He blocks it out. Thinks of the clinic and how he hates it… he hates when Wilson gets like this…thinks of the frigid weather…just like Julie…Thinks of _anything_ besides Wilson here, in his office. Failing miserably. House focuses on a tile above his head. Watches it for what feels like an eternity. Doesn't say anything. In his head he's screaming. Screaming to stop. But he can't say that. Not to Wilson. If it were anybody else, House would have already bashed their heads open with the blunt end of his cane, but everyone knows that House can't deny Wilson anything.

Wilson smells like aftershave and sweat. He hurts him hurts him hurts him. And gets up. And zips up his trousers. And is gone without a second glance. Leaves House's office as swiftly as he came.

After some time, House finally moves. Shakily swallows two pills that he almost chokes on. It's funny how much time he spends on his back at work. Surprisingly, Cuddy hasn't called him on anything. Eventually House gets up on gelatin legs. His cane handle is slicked with sweat and threatens to topple as House carefully redresses himself. Dizzily limps his way to the conference room. Only Cameron is in there sorting mail as usual. She looks up momentarily. House can pinpoint the exact second the pity is released in her eyes. House hates it.

With trembling hands he pours himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and shakily raises it to his mouth. Tastes like battery acid. House hopes the shaking is not too noticeable to the outside world. Hopes that Cameron can't tell that he smells like Wilson and sex. Determinably ignores Cameron. Tries to escape from this room with the pity wallowing to every corner. Maybe to the maternity wing. The chairs there are damn comfortable, plus they get great cable. Just as he's out the door he hears a "Wait" from Cameron.

"_What?" _he says irritably. Surprises even himself at how distant and weak his voice is. He knows why too. Moves faster to try to get out of there before he inevitably collapses. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her point at his back.

"House…you're bleeding."

He looks down at his legs and, indeed, there is a streak of dark crimson going down his left pant leg. Damn, he should have worn darker pants today. Faintly feels Cameron supporting his upper body. Since when did he ever fall, let alone in front of his peers? Hears the coffee mug slip and fall. Shatters at their feet. House knows that Cameron can't support him forever and feels her lower him to the ground.

Hears Cameron calling for help because for a second she forgets she's a doctor and doesn't know what to do but panic. House feels his body betray him but he understands. His body is exhausted. He sees crimson behind his closed eyelids and his last conscious thought was: wasn't he supposed to see black?

**Continue? **


	2. In Which Things Are Pondered

3/24/08

**Disclaimer in Chapter One. **

**Apparently I can only write at two year intervals. I apologize. I was looking over some documents in the post college rush (thank God that hell is over). Imagine my surprise when I come across "Of Right Hand Men" in a flashdrive buried waaaay at the bottom of my desk. While I was pondering what the hell I was thinking when I was writing the original chapter, this little doozy of a first paragraph popped into my head. I was compelled (more like forced) to write out the chapter, lest my brain implode upon itself in retribution ("You're not going to write it out? **_**Vendetta!" **_**BOOM!). This is short as hell, I know, but I'm flying blind here. I have lost my plot outline for this baby and have veered into a whole new territory here. Okay, this AN has reached monstrous proportions and must be stopped. On with the story…(Oh, and though I suppose it's obvious, everything **_**italicized**_** is House's thoughts) **

Gregory House was nothing if not a curious man. So, the first time Wilson drunkenly gropes House through his jeans, he doesn't stop it because he's curious to where this might end up.

House watches out of scrutinizing eyes. He is not aroused, in fact he doubts that Wilson has done this to anyone but little Jimmy. His ministrations are rough and uneven, not pleasuring at all. _Or perhaps it's the Vicodin swimming laps in my veins_, House idly mused. He gently pushes the offending hand away and places it back into its master's own lap.

"Grope that for a while. I'm going to bed."

The voice sounds distant at best and that doesn't sit well with House at all. But this isn't an ordinary occurrence, no. Getting shitfaced drunk is all and all the maraschino cherry on the sundae, (_Sunday, ha! Puns are all on the House, ladies and gentlemen!) _but once you cross the border that border into Gropes-ville, you'd better have a big "F" stamped on that visa.

However, and this is the big However (_being all capitalized and whatnot), _this is James Wilson. No "F" there, despite what House may say.

He contemplates the door for a second and then twists the lock before hobbling off to bed.

_**(I can't seem to make a space bar stay here, so I'm going to indicate it through wordscrude as it may be, SPACE HERE)**_

_Somebody's gonna cry rape. It's not, really. _

"Ughhh…" is all that he can manage around his traitorous tongue. _Eloquent Greggie! Now shit your pants to ice the cake. _

By the incessant beeping and cardboard quality only found in over starched sheets, House deduces he must be in the hospital still, just on the wrong side. This has Cameron's stench all over it. Damn that girl.

But was Wilson really that rough as to land him in the hospital? Idiot man. Had Julie finally called him on the divorce? He'd sigh, but he hasn't the energy.

"Doctor House, you're up!"

Dammit. Dammit! Dammit to _Hell. _Of _course_, Cameron has arrived. Did she even leave? It was foolish of House not to take recon before indicating his consciousness, but why _Cameron_? He supposes it's Fate's way of being a bitch (_You smarmy bastard, face me like a man!)._

"Cameron, who let you… into my room?" He manages out tiredly, but still maintaining his Housian charm. _Now available in Bastard, Asshole, and Fucking A- I'LL KEEL YOU! _

Cameron huffs out of the room. Thank goodness the girl has enough sense to know when she's not wanted, though a little morphine would have been nice. He's hurt, after all.

**_(To repeat, I can't seem to make a space bar stay here, so I'm going to indicate it through words, SPACE HERE; by the way, can anybody clear this up for me?)_**

Apparently Wilson's drunken grope was not a onetime thing. House still doesn't grow aroused _(Work, damn you!) _but hasn't stopped Wilson's wandering hands since the first night. Sometimes, afterwards while lying in his bed, he ponders why he lets Wilson, a man that was a serial womanizer/husband, handle him in such a sexual fashion.

He always comes up with the same answer: _Because he can't deny Wilson, not really. _

He supposes it has some kind of connection to _(No use denying it) _Failed Marriage # 3. Undoubtedly, Julie has placed the Sex Embargo and Wilson's not taking too kindly to it.

So, Wilson comes here for company and alcohol, not counseling (heaven forbid). He supposes he wants, _craves_, comfort too. And why wouldn't he? Wilson's a caring guy. He probably even cuddles, the saccharine bastard.

So House lets Wilson touch him, use his body (because God knows House isn't treating it right anyway). House tolerates it and chalks it up to a good deed in his part. They keep it up for a while, never mentioning it at work; in fact, it did not _exist _outside out House's apartment, whatever "it" was.

The first time Wilson takes him, he's a little surprised (if not a little scared, but damned if he'll let it show) but he takes it in stride. He relaxes as much as he can and pretends that Wilson isn't above him, rutting away. _That's right, Jimmy. Get out all your angries. _With Wilson usually gone by the time he gets up, he cleans himself off in the morning and tries to go on with his day.

Then, one day, House wakes up just in time to see Wilson leave. He makes no indication that he is awake, but somehow he thinks Wilson knows…

**I don't know what to think about this. Better yet, what do you think? Please don't hold back. **


End file.
